Watching my son watching
the tree, its communication
of atoms’ movement. I mean, the wind
commingled–transfer of life
between all things. I wonder
what in his blood commends him
to speak–word without form reaching
up, reaching out to a higher being.
His small hands, upraised, command
my notice. Little life passing,
passing me by. He brings me treasure:
sea-glass slanted on the fence,
sticks and stones from ordinary walks
in an extraordinary world, wasting away
but for our pausing to witness
our children watching the tree.